


By Firelight

by undercovercaptain



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angsty married Jonsa, Brave and Gentle and Strong, Confessional, F/M, First Time, Idiots in Love, Post-ADOS probably, book canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:54:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29196414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undercovercaptain/pseuds/undercovercaptain
Summary: “I couldn’t sleep,” she whispered; quiet though she knew not why.She saw the corner of Jon’s mouth uptick slightly. Another sad smile.“I know the feeling.”
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 51
Kudos: 173





	1. Gloaming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back on my Jonsa shit, y'all! Coz I just...*clenches fist* I just wanna give Sansa the world, ok?
> 
> (Disclaimer: GRRM's world and characters, I'm just playing in the sandbox.)

**Between the sun’s setting and the full fall of dark.**

_Scots_ or _Poetic_. Twilight or dusk. [From Old English _glōmung_ , from _glōm,_ akin to _glōwan_ , an Old English verb meaning ‘to glow.’ Also related to Old Norse _glámr,_ a poetic name for the moon.]

In the dim dusk-light, the hearth-fire flickered, casting wavering shadows across the rushes and along the bedchamber’s tall granite walls. Once, twice, the wood splintered and crackled, hissing with a pop, the flames licking over some knot in the logs, washing over it till it fissured.

By his feet, Ghost stretched, jaw widening and tongue curling in a silent yawn. With his eyes closed, slipping himself away, Jon could feel the heat against his fur, could smell the burst of pine and drift of ash, the soft pant and sigh of both their breathing.

Sitting there, _lying_ there, he could almost feel at peace. He could almost forget.

But still the dream that had woken him returned to him in flashes. The flames that had caught hold, had enveloped the towering pyre, that had shed light across a barren wasteland, growing fiercer and fiercer, forcing him to take a step back. Then the sound of the wood groaning, the tongues of flame rising and flickering, until the burning body suddenly turned black, a cloak of mourning that caught fire the next second. Flames burning flames. And his own face staring back.

Jon moved stiffly in the hard-backed chair as he straightened, as he rubbed a hand across his tired, stinging eyes. _It just goes to show that I cannot leave anything behind_ , he thought wearily. _I must bring it all with me, day after day, whether I want to or not._

He thought of her absently then, sleeping in her mother’s chambers, more than just the distance of a solar separating them. He wondered if she suffered from sleepless nights too. He wondered, not for the first time, if it pleased her that he never came to her, that when he walked her to her door, he never pressed her for entry, never touched her more than a brother should. _But I am not her brother. And I never was._ The truth of it, the unreality of it, made his heart stutter uneasily in his chest, his burnt palm itching, the fingers flexing.

Old Nan used to tell stories about knights and their ladies who would sleep in a single bed with a blade between them for honour’s sake. But though she was a lady, he was no true knight. A legitimised lord, aye, yet still a bastard at heart. And a man capable of violence. A broken, beastly man. But a man who did what was necessary. A man who had survived, who _would_ survive. If only to keep her _here_ , strong within Winterfell’s walls, safe and cared for. So be it a sword, or be it a solar, he would keep his distance, acting the honourable knight, the prudish husband, but knowing the truth of his baseness, of the want that would not cease.

Aye, he had thought it familial fondness at first, the ache he felt at their reunion; seeing her dressed in a dirtied grey cloak, her knuckles white against the reins of a dying horse. He wanted her safe, wanted her well, he wanted… _I don’t know what I wanted._ For he hadn’t known what he was then — a beast or abomination — but somehow, seeing her, seeing the red of her hair shining, fighting through the dark, she had begun the task of returning him to himself.

But it had been hard. _It is still hard._ All those nights, all that darkness, all those times when he had pulled away, had raged, and fought, had growled more than spoke, only to then sit with his head against the wall and weep. The pain, the remembrance, the betrayal; it had all surged upwards like a flooded cellar, overwhelming him, drowning him. His hands and feet ceased to be a part of his body, weighed down like stones, until he was nothing but a frantic heart, a swollen shapeless lump pumping out screams and tears that had waited perhaps years to be heard.

And what had she done, his darling one? She had held him, as a mother would a child. This girl with the fire kissed hair, with a voice like a nightingale, softly soothing him, her small hand a cool balm against his burning skin. And he had loved her for it, more than he should. _More than a brother should._ It was wrong then, he knew. He knew and yet still she had stirred him; those blue eyes so sweet and beseeching, her smiles at first timorous and then strengthening.

Yes, it was wrong then, and it was different now.

With his gaze still searching the fire, he thought of the weirwood, of its red leaves and white face, and of the words they had said before it. Of his lips against her forehead, and the way her eyes had fluttered shut. He thought of the hearth-fire, later in her chambers, waking flames in her silken hair, as he bid her a hollow goodnight, as he said, _I will never force you, I will never hurt you._

A blade of honour placed between them.

* * *

The hush of twilight had settled over the room, soft and drowsy, yet still she could not sleep. In its grate the fire had dwindled, the embers still glowing, the scant wood charred black. Against the floor the light stretched feebly, flickering, the ends of its tendrils succumbing to the heavy darkness.

She could not recall when it had started, this restlessness. This heartsickness. But now she could not help herself. She twisted in her furs, mind plagued by endless fantasies, robbing herself of sleep.

In the protected privacy of her chambers, she dwelt on the architecture of his face, she traced the curves with invisible fingers: the expression of intelligent melancholy; the grey eyes with dark shadows beneath; the soft, down-turned mouth that gave him a look, not of sullenness, but of great, sad understanding. But then her gaze would drift, to the slopes of his body, which was strong and firm, as far as she could tell from his clothes and those brief, incendiary moments, when he held her in too short of an embrace. _Always so quick to release me._

No, she couldn’t quite place the moment of discovery, though surely the revelation of his birth had enabled it. _A cousin, not a brother._ So surely it was not so very troubling a realisation, of how handsome he was, and had always been? And surely it was not so very wrong, to want to feel her husband beside her, if only just to be held? She had not wished for such a thing with Lord Tyrion, not when he’d seen her fear yet made her strip. In truth, it was better to think of Jon, to ponder over his silences and wonder at his solemn looks, than it was to remember what had come before. Because Jon was _Jon_. And he said he would always care for her, would always protect her, and for once, she let herself believe such a thing was possible.

Having persuaded herself she was not afraid, Sansa could not explain then why she was trembling from the moment she had thrown back the bedcovers, to the moment she approached the door that led to their solar. _What if he thinks me wanton? What if he thinks me false?_ She prepared herself for the worst, as well as the best of outcomes. _Is it so wrong to just want to be near him?_

For a while now she had fought with this weakness in herself, this endless one-sided conversation that took the place of action. But no more. In stockinged feet, she softly treaded the rushes, sparing a glance to the moon formed shadow cast by neatly stacked missives, and the inkwell she knew was running low.

That morning, a party of resettled wildlings from the Gift had come to the winter town, bringing with them narwhal ivory, meat, and furs to trade. She and Jon had overseen the proceedings, ensuring that no one was named a cheat, or short-changed their fair share. But no ill will had erupted, for the people loved their lord and lady, as they had loved her parents. So although the chill had nipped at their cheeks, and a north-westerly wind had tousled their hair, from the smallfolk there had been much cheer and laughter. And then Jon had looked at her so kindly, as they had made to return back home. He had pressed her gloved hand, if only for a moment, as if to silently say, _well done_ , and it was…it was lovely. _He_ was lovely. _And brave and gentle and strong._

Knocking on his door now, she worried her lip over the sudden thought that she might wake him. But it was a concern that proved unfounded an instant later, when he opened the door with surprise and a furrowed brow yet moving quickly aside to let her enter. Sansa saw then that there was something different about him: he was— her heart leapt —clothed in only his night things, soft and rumpled, and looking like she’d never seen him.

“Sansa?”

His voice sounded gruff, as though her name was his first word since waking.

“Forgive me, did I—did I wake you?”

His arm slipped behind her then, to press close the door with a gentle _click_. When he moved it back she felt the cotton of his nightshirt brush against her shoulder.

“No,” he answered, smile fleeting, strangely unhappy. “No, you didn’t.”

Retreating from her then, he turned to stir the fire, the iron poker clanging in the stillness of the room. At the sound of it, Ghost shifted in his supine position, slowly raising his head, his red eyes searching, silently groused by the disturbance.

“Come,” Jon said, his back still turned, but gesturing towards the lone chair before the hearth; the one he must have just vacated. “You can sit here if you like.”

As she settled herself, she watched him hold out his hands to the flames, then sink down to sit on the fur rug close to her chair, his fingers spreading through the fur of his wolf.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she whispered; quiet though she knew not why.

She saw the corner of Jon’s mouth uptick slightly. Another sad smile.

“I know the feeling.”

His eyes were on her now, dark grey, almost black, picking up sparks from the firelight.

In a move of daring, she slipped off the chair to kneel in front of him, Ghost snuffling softly beside them. Her heart thrilling at the sharp intake of Jon’s breath, but at little afraid at the way his body straightened.

“May I stay?” she asked, resting her hands shyly on his knees. “May I—” She felt herself swallow with a dry throat, hating how tremulous her voice sounded. “I think I might sleep better with you.”

On her knees she rocked at little towards him, hands unconsciously stroking his thighs. She liked the way he looked tonight, his inky curls untied and rebellious, and how the licking of the flames made him feel so warm to the touch.

Jon looked at her now, a strange spark animating his face, as his hand slowly lifted to cup her cheek, her loose hair sliding against his fingers, whilst his rough pads lightly grazed her face.

“Of course, sweet girl,” he answered, eyes softly creasing, and his body leaning in. “Of course.”

Her replying smile was sweet and thankful, until her lower lip trembled, some deep feeling suddenly rising, like a cellar room that was flooding. She pressed into his hand, sniffing. _Brave and gentle and strong. What a thing it would be…to be loved by you._

“ _Sansa._ ”

His lips were against her ear, her body pulled from the floor to rest against him, not captured, but rescued, his heart thudding steadily beneath her cheek. And for a moment they just stood there, both swaying with tiredness, Ghost’s fur brushing against her stockinged heels. 

It was only when he was beneath the furs beside her, did she allow herself at last to fall.

Plummeting into a sleep.

Like a heavy stone.

Sinking into deep water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my plan for each chapter is to have them named after a different phase in the night/morning, so we feel like we're going on a little romantic journey ;) Also I'm a big nerd so I like doing my lil word origin mentions :)
> 
> Comments, as always, are very much appreciated!
> 
> Cappy x


	2. Witching

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, I've been on a Jonsa vid bender (even though I hate the goddamn show for several reasons) and I just... *bites fist* I just need (NEED) these two being soft with one another. I NEED IT LIKE I NEED WATER. So by god, I'm gonna give it to them here. 
> 
> (Disclaimer: GRRM's world and characters, I'm just playing in the sandbox.)

**The hour at which witches are supposed to appear, usually after midnight.**

As a verb, _to witch_ , a less common word for _bewitch_. [From Old English _wicca_ ; related to Middle Low German _wicken_ , meaning ‘to conjure’, as well as Swedish _vicka_ , ‘to move to and fro’.]

The hall was empty and dark as he stood in the shadows for a moment, debating with himself, around him the torchlights softly flickering. Within his chest, Jon’s heart raced, blood thundering round his body like a river in spate, making his skin so tight he thought he would burst.

It was a freezing night. Snowflakes still dusted his hair and the fur of his cloak, the chill of their touch not yet departed. Out in the main yard, his breath had smoked in front of him, hanging in the stillness. The only sound to interrupt it had been the squeak of dry snow beneath his boots as he trudged past building repairs paused for the night, to be resumed come morning; the busy sound of saws scraping against cold wood and hammers thudding onto new nails.

Sometimes, he imagined himself getting away from it all, as far away as possible — not just from his family and Winterfell, but from the north — to a place where it was always silent, where he would be so distant and unreachable that the problems that plagued him here dwindled into nothingness.

_But that can never be._

The night prior, Sansa had gone to sleep beside him with her head against his chest, a sweet repose, but dangerously sweet. And for the longest time, he had just lain there, listening to her breathe, trying to ignore his longing, his imaginings of what could be. _If we were man and wife in truth…_ But to go in search of what could be was to postpone the difficulty of living with what was. So come morning, he had not lingered, had banished from his mind his foolish thoughts of another life, one where she might wake and protest his leaving sleepily, where she might wind herself more tightly around his body, kissing and caressing him, as if to imprint the sensation on her hands and mouth for the coming evening, fond and loving. And then how he might give in, might shift himself on top of her, weighing her down, desirous and adoring. _But I know I am not a man she would choose freely, only one that was imposed upon her._

With an unhappy spirit, he slipped his gloves from his hands and lifted the latch to his chamber door. Cold metal against cold skin. He felt the cool trickle of a melting snowflake run down his cheek as he then devested himself of his heavy cloak, tossing it across the chair beside the hearth, to be warmed by its dying flames. For a little while, he shuffled on unawares: laying down fresh logs and stoking the fire, kicking off boots, and struggling with numb fingers at the ties of his leather jerkin.

“Jon?”

He turned with a jerk to face her, hands stilled on his undershirt, the phantom of his thoughts and desire conjured there before him, fluffed up like a fledging, with his bed as her nest.

“Forgive me, I hadn’t meant to wake you.”

He spoke in a strained murmur, watching as Sansa drew herself up into a sitting position, causing the bedding to fall to her waist. His chamber was all hazy shadows, the hearth just catching light, yet his eyes sought her clearly, watching as she held out her hand, beckoning.

Her cheeks had a hint of colour, her eyes glittered in the burgeoning firelight; a thin nightgown was all that covered her nakedness from his yearning eyes. Weariness and want tore at him in different directions. Because ridiculous as it was, he still felt as though he no right to be there, in the chambers that were once his uncle’s, standing before her now, both a wretch and wretched, looking at her half-dressed, radiant in the flickering firelight, and hopelessly loving her.

 _By the gods, how could I deny her anything?_ In only a few short strides, he was by her side, taking up her proffered hand, aware of her heat, his coldness.

“You’re cold,” Sansa murmured, her auburn brow creasing.

He nodded, almost conciliatory, the bedding dipping a little beneath his weight as he sat down beside her, his hand tightening absently around hers.

Sansa’s gaze held his until a rush of wind rattled against the shuttered casements, startling her. Shifting on the bed, Jon craned his neck over his shoulder, looking across to where he could hear its howl growing stronger, as though he might stare past wood and panes of glass, out towards the night’s darkened world, shrouded for now, but not entirely concealing. Aye, less than an hour ago, he had stared up to where part of the battlements framed a corridor of rushing sky, a blanket of black velvet, deep and dusty with stars. Ghost was out hunting somewhere, beyond those battlements, in the wolfwoods, and it was uncertain when he would be back; the fissured treeline stretching onwards, outwards before him, evergreen and hoarfrost, stirred by the north wind, reaching out towards winter’s horizon. _And free in a way I can never be._

She did not ask him where he had been, or why. Whether her silence was from understanding or resignation, he did not know, he hardly knew his reason for wandering himself. Instead, she slipped her hand from his so she could shyly put both arms around him, the press of her warmth seeping through the frigid hunch of his shoulders. And for a little while, he allowed her to hold him, to embrace him, as he remained inert for as long as he could — to test himself, or perhaps to punish — until he at last gave in, turning his face into her chest and putting his own arms around her waist, a tired exhale rushing past his lips.

As he slid a chilled hand across her slim shoulder, he felt Sansa shudder. He retreated from her in an instant, awkwardly lamenting to her his cold state.

“Don’t be sorry,” she whispered back, raising a tentative hand to stroke the damp hair from his forehead, the snowflakes now all melted. “I was almost afraid of seeing you, but now I’m not afraid.”

“Why were you afraid?” _Afraid of me?_

She dropped her eyes, her hand retracting. “Because, here, I feel…wicked, I suppose.”

“ _Wicked_? Wicked, how?”

“Sneaking into a bed that isn’t mine.”

His heart lurched strangely in his chest, at her words, at the way she now brushed her fingers across the tufted fur that lay between them, smoothing it back one way, and then the other.

“Sansa,” Jon breathed, his head inclining, trying to catch her gaze. “Sansa, look at me.”

Her brow furrowed, sombre eyes blinking and a dim blush mantling. Still, she would not look at him.

“I surprised you with my being here, didn’t I?”

Her voice was hushed as she spoke, poised and pretending — pretending as though she did not care especially much for his answer, yet failing with the way she bit at her lip.

“A little,” he answered truthfully, though he was quick to remedy: “But a happy one. A happy surprise.” He smiled wryly then, a touch bitterly. Bastard brave but bastard resentful. “You know…you’ve more right to this place than I.”

Her eyes lifted, widening in defiance as she shook her head vehemently. She then reached across the furs to grasp his lax hand, delicate fingers but a strength beneath.

“No. This is your home too, Jon. It belongs to you, as much as it does me. Don’t say such things.”

He felt his mouth twitch, a small uptick that then quickly faded.

“I’m sorry…I’m a poor sort of husband for you, aren’t I?”

“No. I want no other.”

* * *

Jon absorbed her words. But his face showed nothing.

“You shouldn’t say such things just because you feel you ought to.”

“I try not to say anything now just because I feel I ought to.”

Beyond his chamber, the wind had died down, leaving only the intermittent rippling of the hearth’s flames to accompany the hushed sound of their married breathing. _Be brave_ , she thought, as she lifted Jon’s hand, still clasped in hers, to press his knuckles to her lips, feeling the ridges and the calloused skin. She felt, more than heard, the shudder of his responding exhale, and then the shy touch of his free hand brushing against her hair.

 _This I why I love him_ , she thought, because beneath the moods and silences was this thirsty soul that responded to her shy, naive touches with heart-breaking tenderness.

“Sweet girl…”

“I missed you this morning when you left. And I felt—I…” She stumbled over her words, her heart like a caged bird flapping, and her voice hushed by apprehension. “I wished for you to hold me for a little longer.”

In that moment, Sansa felt truly bathed in the warmth of his attention, by the way his eyes seemed to concentrate on her, so lovely and dark, but somewhat fragile too, almost as though they pained him to look through. _I never want to see you hurt by anything._

How it happened, she afterwards could not remember. One minute they were sitting close to each other, and he was looking down at her hand, at his hand in hers, and then into her eyes; the next, his body was against hers, and his lips were kissing her unbelieving mouth, his fingers threaded through her hair. In her mind, she had not moved a single muscle, and yet she found her body reclining against the featherbed, her arms wrapped around Jon’s shoulders, and her hips, after the first few paralysed seconds, pushing shyly up against his, as he pressed eagerly down on her with a groan. It seemed entirely clear what should be done. But then there was a sharp pop of crackling wood from the hearth, and he abruptly pulled himself off and away from her. He did not dare look her in the eye, and Sansa wondered fearfully, despite the total lack of premeditation, if it was her fault and an apology was required.

“Jon…”

“Forgive me, I’m sorry, I—” he interrupted, as though speaking in one continuous, ragged breath.

A little desperately, she reached for him, putting her hands on his shoulders, attempting to turn him back towards her. Her fingers slid helplessly against the smooth weave of his shirt, the skin beneath now flushed and warm, when previously he had been so chilled. Even as he bent to her will, turning to face her, he promptly seized her hands in his, halting her movements.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he whispered fiercely. “When you touch me, I can’t think, I can’t.. _._ ”

As though in a trance, she edged nearer, stunned by his words. Always, every day, whether he was physically near her or not, Jon was to her a distant lighthouse seen from her small craft: a trusted, still point of light across dark, treacherous seas, beckoning her home. _Please._ She brought her face closer to his, aware of the scent of frost, leather and pine that still clung to him. _Please…_

With one hand placed lightly on the curve of his shoulder, she leant into him. She brushed her lips carefully against his. Once, twice, until when she went to pull away, timidity overwhelming, Jon went with her; mouth slanting over hers and chest expanding as he drew in a staggered breath. And then he was kissing her back in earnest, his arms dragging her up against him, almost into his lap, caressing her, finding her waist, and twining fingers in her hair. At his prompting, Sansa tentatively opened her mouth to him, the wet feel of his tongue against hers thrilling her in a way that left her belly fluttering and her throat mewling. 

When at last they pulled apart, Jon looked into her face, his eyes slightly dazed and soft.

“You're my husband,” she murmured hotly, pressing her flushed face into the crook of his neck. “The man I choose, and I’m not letting you go. I’m not going to let you go on thinking I don’t care for you when I do.”

“ _Gods_.” She felt his quiet laughter brush against her ear, the gentle scrape of his beard tickling her skin. “I’ve been such a fool, but I…” His voice faltered, becoming tight and choked. “I’m so _tired_ of it, all this pretending that I don't—”

Her vision was hazy, her nose already sniffling as she reluctantly pulled away to look at him, her heart, and her love writ large across her face.

“My fool.”

“What…”

“ _M_ _y_ fool.”

When he smiled at her then, nodding, it was warm and golden, like tinder catching light. _Like the firelight._

“Aye, _yours_." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Florian and Jonquil anyone??? ;) 
> 
> Comments, as always, are very much appreciated!
> 
> Cappy x


End file.
